Cadmium
by Doublebee
Summary: "You are Dave Strider, and right now, you're contemplating your big brother's life." Random Sadstuck.


You may not know very much about your brother. But you do know one thing that no one else could _ever _understand as much as you do.

Your brother loved you more than anything. And that was enough for the two of you. That was just enough to get you both by.

You are Dave Strider, and right now, you're contemplating your big brother's life.

Bro was a quiet guy around you most of the time. You really liked that about him. There didn't need to be a mess of words and lies between the both of you. When things needed to be said, they were said, and that was that; no questions asked. Bro was usually right anyways, as you regret to admit.

You remember all those lessons he gave you up on the rooft-

Okay. So you remember all those times he beat your ass on the rooftop. Who cares? Your bro was training you. To face the real world. Granted, not with side-sweeps and roundhouse kicks, but with the mental training. Thinking everything was like a strife; that you needed to figure out all the steps and moves you could use beforehand, to always have the advantage. Hell, you don't know if that was his initial idea, but it sure as shit got you thinking a lot quicker.

He taught you how to defend yourself in many ways than one. Bro understood, pale skin and fire-colored eyes weren't really something that other people called "normal" and he showed you how to put on your poker face. How to take each blow, each lump, and simply turn it against the assaulter. How to hide the few times you actually did break.

You remember the few times Child Protection Services came to your house, due to complaints about said strifes about the shared roof. How scared you were when the agent (a woman most of the time) would be thre when you answered the door; whom interrogated your elder sibling to the point he was visibly shaken.

You remember their threats.

_"You can't raise him here, sir. He's just a little boy. Under these conditions, something is going to happen, and it will not be for the better."_

_"You're starving him! Just look how thin your brother is! Don't you want anything better for the little guy? Won't you at least think it over?"_

_"This is simply unsuitable for a child to be living in! Phallic puppets, clutter everywhere!"_

_"You're killing your little brother. And when he passes away, there will be no one at fault but yourself."_

Those nights, you'd talk to Rose. And she would soothe you,with her knowledge and intellectual ways. Sometimes you didn't understand her. Sometimes you didn't need to understand, because just knowing she could put into words how things would shape out, and how you'd be safe was enough.

The few times Bro comforted you will always remain in your mind, fresh visions to see. How he'd hold you with one arm tossed around your shoulders, (you were always such a great deal smaller than him, the bastard) and sit beside you. Silence was often frowned upon, but in the Strider household, it was a fucking gift. Words were weapons. Silence was saftey.

You remember how Bro died, too. Well, not his exact death, but you do remember his corpse, with that sword jutting out from him like it actually fucking belonged there. His blood as red as your eyes. His shirt as pale as your face.

It was hard to accept, but you swallowed it down, like a mouthful of shit, really. Thick and slimey and threatening to spew out of you at any moment. You didn't understand how to handle it. Didn't know how to cope.

How are you supposed to live when your only protector is slaughtered?

Where does hope go when the carrier of it is shot down, point-blank?

How are you supposed to go on when there is nothing left to fight for?

_"You live for _you_, Dave. You and your friends. Because life is like the Game in that sense, you know?"_

John's words were true. You had yourself to live for. You'd be dammed if you let the entire Strider name be exterminated by a shitty game, and the rest of the world, for that matter. You'd live for your brother's memory. For the friends who never gave up on you, even when you tried to.

Egbert was also the one to put the idea of living in Bro's memory into your head. After he'd found out the fate of his father, you noticed the small piece of white ribbon he tied around his thin wrist. It certainly wasn't girly, to say the least. Just tight and bright. A reminder of something?

After weeks upon weeks of staring at the ribbon, you finally had the courage to ask what it was for.

"Oh, this?" He asked, holding up his hand. You nodded. "I... My dad used to wear white button-ups all the time. Even when he was just going to bake! And, I always want to remember him, you know? So I dug this little number out and, ta-da!"

He smiled with that stupid sound effect, but you saw the gleam of tears welling in those huge blue eyes. You didn't press the matter any farther.

But the next day, John had found you, grinning that stupid shit-eating grin he only gets when he's doing something that's going to be big-hit or miss, it doesn't matter. He shouted your name a million times, even though you had mumbled a "what?" after the first three.

And then he opened his hand.

Poised between his long spidery fingers, a long strand of orange ribbon unraveled to hang in your sight. Bright, flame-colored orange, almost too bright actually. Rich, pure _orange_.

Exactly Bro's favorite color.

"Let me tie it on you," John said. There were no more smiles in his voice, no more childish excitement or wonder. It was a tone of comfort. Thick and soothing. It suited him far too well for your tastes, really.

Behind your shades, you watched with wide crimson eyes as he took your wrist into his pianist hands. Warm and large, you'd never forget. The silk of ribbon rubbed against your veins in your wrist as he pulled it taut, tying it in a tight, unbreakable knot on the top of your arm.

Bright and orange. A reminder that Bro would always be apart of you.

You hugged John after that. Held him tight; so tight that your shades slid up on your forehead, his shirt fisted up in your hands and face pressed painfully to his shoulder. When he didn't say a word, not even an "it'll be okay, Dave!" you lost it, silent tears wetting his shirt.

John is a lot like Bro, in some ways, you have to admit. Maybe that's what drew you to him in the first place. Probably what made your friendship so key to your survival after losing your brother.

You may not know a lot of things about your brother. But you do know one thing that no one else could ever understand as much as you do.

Your brother loved you more than anything.


End file.
